The Plan - OUTTAKES
by QuantumFizzx
Summary: REMOVED. Thank you for your readership. Kept a few chapters up to explain why & share outtakes alter. Obsessed but unnoticed for over a year, she puts a plan in motion to catch the eye of the corner-office. That's her plan. Fate has another plan entirely
1. Outtake  Day 1

The Plan - Outtake

Day of Employment: 1

7:55am

Bag: Wallet, picture of best friend & myself, make-up, notepad, lunch, hairclip.

Clothes: Red wrap dress, red pumps.

Hair: I don't even want to talk about it.

I left twenty minutes early today. That should've been plenty of time for normal traffic and most emergency circumstances.

But no.

The lot was scraped down to glare ice. The windshield would not defrost. Time out in the wind has taken a toll on my hair; it's now inexplicable. Everyone drove too fast or too slow. Hit every light. Encountered a school bus route that I didn't know about during my route test run yesterday.

I should learn not to even bother with being prepared.

The best laid plans oft go awry. Oft? What the fuck is 'oft' all about? Too much going on to finish the entire word?

That's all just a nice of way saying one is screwed regardless.

Life's a bitch and she has several sisters.

Now, I'm riding the elevator while it stops on nearly every floor. People file in and out.

One person gets on and rides it up one whole level. I suppress a scream.

Someone behind me huffs irritably. I keep my eyes trained on the numbers. Climb. Stop.

We're over capacity at one point, I'm certain of it. I feel my backside get pressed into the person behind me.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"Not your fault." A deep voice. A soft reply. The flesh behind my ear tingles. Instinct, for reasons I don't want to examine, tells me to fold into the man behind me.

Then, I realize that this man is probably getting a face full of my frizzy hair. Mortifying.

The doors open for my floor and I bolt, never looking back.

10:11am

"This is the breakroom." Angela states the obvious. I don't mind. It's comforting.

"The coffee is on the honor system. There is usually a fundraiser for someone's school children if you want snacks, otherwise the vending machines are here to price gouge you." Angela goes on explaining and tosses some change in the collection jar next to the coffee pot.

"The refrigerators are cleaned out every Monday," she says, and begins to pour a coffee from one of the pots. "You can get some really nice st-"

A blonde woman with a severe look barrels through the room toward where we stand. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, clearing a path for her, but conversation continues without pause. Angela stands to the side, holding her coffee pot aloft and smiling cryptically at me. I'm sure I look confused.

The blonde reaches to a pot with a masking tape ring on the handle, pours a cup swiftly with one hand while adding what looks to be special creamer and sweetener. She turns, lips pursing tightly, and leaves the room.

"Dammit!" The blonde woman switches the cup to her other hand and sucks her now free – and probably scalded - hand into her mouth, then shakes it off, all the while walking swiftly away.

My hands float out, a silent request for explanation.

Angela, smiling, resumes pouring her coffee. "That's Mr. Cullen's assistant." She pours in enough sugar to trigger early onset diabetes and leans back on the counter. "Well, for now."

"Oh, she's been having trouble?" That explains why she seemed so nervous, why everyone got out of her way.

"Heck no. She's doing well. Almost a month. She may set a record."

I decide I need to stay far, far away from this Cullen person.

2:58pm

"Pay up." A thin, young man leans over Angela's cubicle wall with his palm up.

"Hold your horses there." Angela is chewing on a marker and looking over a colorful chart. "Yep, it's you." She looks up at the guy and then hands him an envelope from her desk.

I do my best to acclimate myself to this new computer program, but their exchange has definitely piqued my interest.

"Sweet!" He fist pumps and then looks back at me rather shamefacedly. "Oh, you must be Bella. I'm Eric Riley." He extends his hand and I shake it. "You also must think I'm terribly morbid, benefitting from the misfortune of others."

My mouth opens, but I don't really even know what to say. Out of the loop here.

Angela rolls closer to me and whispers conspiratorially. "We have a betting pool for how long Cullen's assistants last."

My head pulls back. That _is_ rather cold-hearted. Eric fans through several larger bills.

Cold-hearted…and profitable. I have loans to pay.

"How does this work?" I ask, but suddenly everyone seems to have heard some cue that I've missed. They straighten and begin a flutter of activity.

Self-preservation instincts are not kicking in; I stand up to see what's going on. I imagine that I stick out like a sore, red thumb over the tops of everyone else.

That's when I see him.

Whoever he is.

Except, I know.

I just know.

Oh my good God.

There are no words. Beautiful.

Ineffable.

He's a few feet from a set of large, dark wooden doors in the far corner. The desk outside that office is empty. He moves smoothly past it and scans the room.

His eyes fall on me. I'm incapable of movement under his gaze. Held. Matador. Bull.

He straightens his collar, never falters in his long strides. Looks away from me.

And then he's gone.

Everyone resumes their normal lives and conversations and I am left standing still and dumbstruck while the world happens around me.

**EDWARD'S POV**

7:58am

There are definite reasons I arrive at work before everyone else and this little sojourn into metal box Hell is a prime example.

_Marketing trials are 85% positive for the new labeling designs. If we…_

Smashed into the far corner of an elevator - and forced to interact and _smell_ people with whom I would cheerfully go to my grave never having encountered - is not a great start to the day.

_Only 72% for the teen target market. There has to be a way to re-package…_

_Is that my phone? No._

But, finding that my assistant had failed to bind the reports and distribute them yesterday was no way to start either.

_That Nebraska printing company's bid was so far below everyone else's. Need to verify that they have the specs right. _

_That was definitely my phone this…_

"Good morning, Mr. Cullen."

I nod once. "Morning." _Whoever you are._

I grab my phone and scroll through items while more people load and shift around like tiles in a child's puzzle game.

_What would improve the percentages?_

_Conference at 4:00 today._

_Dinner meeting at 6:30 with the Germans. _

_Need the counter bids for-_

Everyone shifts and I go flush against the back wall. Then, they shift again, no doubt allowing yet another person onto the elevator. If we don't all plunge to the sweet release of our deaths it will be a certified miracle.

Grand. The person now in front of me is nearly on top of me.

_What the fuck? _

_Is that?_

Yes, it is.

That is someone's ass pressed up against my dick.

Round, pliant, warm.

She's brunette and comes up to my chin. That's about all there is to say. She's all wavy, long tresses and a red dress of the simple elegant variety. I don't seem to recognize her. I also can't see her face. That doesn't really mean anything as I don't really dedicate much grey matter to employees of the other businesses that share this building.

I might've willfully opted to reserve a few brain cells for this particular ass though.

"Sorry." I barely hear her voice. As the elevator starts its climb, her hand braces against my thigh and I doubt she even realizes she's done so.

"Not your fault." I hear my own voice like that of a stranger.

Now, I'm at a loss as to why I would say that, why I would try to make her comfortable. It most assuredly is her fault. She's groping me and not respecting personal space. Crowded or not, there are some things one simply does not do.

One does not rub against strangers in elevators or grab onto legs in close proximity to dicks that have been in recent contact with lovely asses.

_Lovely…_

I shake my head and clear this train of thought utilizing my phone as a suitable distraction while scanning and forwarding emails.

_Percentages are-_

_Market tria-_

It's hopeless. I can't think clearly with her pressed against me.

And it pisses me off.

The elevator ride with her can't be over fast enough. My floor is next and it is still taking far too long.

I resolve to never take the elevator again so that I can avoid this distracting person henceforth.

The doors open and I make to move around her…but I can't. I can't move around her because she is already gone and taken her pretty ass and what I now see are red heels along with her, passing through the doors onto my floor and into our open office area.

Well, this is terribly inconvenient.

The doors close and we're up another two floors before it registers that I've failed to exit.

2:58pm

_Letterhead currently says "Limited Liability Corporation" not "Company." No such thing. Fix that. _

_KC company is ripe for merger or buyout. _

_Conference call in one hour._

_Dinner reservations confir-_

That last thing I need to see when I leave my office is the first thing – the only thing – I manage to see.

She's standing up among the cubicles. Volumes of hair and her red dress practically a bullseye in my line of vision. Charts and banners and everything fade away, heeding to the contrast of porcelain skin against auburn waves. The whole room is mere concentric circles leading toward her face.

And, of course, even from this distance I can tell she's rather pretty. The fact that she's not a hag with a comely figure is par for the day.

She's probably ugly on the inside. I'll cling to that hope.

_Crap. What was I leaving my office for? _I keep walking steadily, not letting the thoughts tripping my mind find their way to my feet.

I realize I'm still looking at her as I begin to turn down the hall. I blink away. Alright. The sooner I ferret out her flaws and irritating habits, the sooner I can get back on task.


	2. Chptr 75 Day 660 5:07pm OuttakeSnapshot

I wrote this 'moment' and could not think of anything more to go with it. So, I guess it's a snippet of their lives at this point.

I am aware that it is short - I hope that its brevity is not a source of irritation. A spectacularly unscientific poll on Facebook said that people would not mind it as is.

So, here's what Planella and Pineapple/Planward are up to today:

...

...

Day 660

5:07pm

In the great, green room

there is a telephone and red platforms

and a picture of…

…his stepmom.

Um, check that shit.

His effing stepmother. Right there. On the dresser.

The dresser in which I still do not have a drawer.

Next to the bathroom in which I have only a travel toothbrush.

I've never met her, but she is ever-present in our relationship.

Overseeing. Supervising.

Silently critiquing with her flat eyes.

Did you like the mount-up I did on your boy last night?

Yes, yes. I've been stretching. Trying to keep limber.

Today is our anniversary. Of what I'm not sure.

At least, Edward says it is.

I recall no extraordinarily special event happening on the 30th of any of the months we've been together.

First time we went on an actual date: January 7th.

Mutually agreed we are a couple: January 9th

First sleepover – his place: January 12th

First sleepover – my place: January 13th

Said "I Love You" genuinely and without reservation or reference to 'probably' or other qualifier? February 4th

Observed the age-old ritual of rubbing our happiness in the face of those less fortunate? February 14th

But, 'anniversary' with Edward always translates to some variant of 'wall sex' so…well…who am I to quibble with trivial matters such as accuracy and facts?

We have been enjoying a little celebratory SOS – Shoes On Sex.

They say practice makes perfect, but that doesn't seem to apply. If so, I'd have a doctorate. An FMP PhD.

It isn't Valentine's Day, but that doesn't stop my heels from piercing Edward's heart.

If by 'heart,' one means 'dick.'

"Are you prepping me for some sort of genital piercing? At least let's discuss that sort of thing first."

"Do you mean an apadravya?" I try not to snort at the idea of Edward with such an ornamentation.

"Apadravya? Any intent to plunge a steel rod through…there…best begin with 'Abracadabra.'" He exhales sharply, cupping himself like a baby bird fallen from the nest, and shudders. "Better yet, just go straight for 'Avada Kedvara."

This isn't anything I really want, but I can't help myself when he's like this.

"I hear it's very pleasurable," I say as innocently as possible, running two fingers over the sheet in slow, swirly patterns. His eyes follow their trek.

"It's done in one quick session when they pierce the mea-"

"Bella, I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, we are never having intercourse again."

Oh, dear. Quick onset laryngitis.


	3. Outtake Day 13 & 14

A/N: This is an outtake that I donated to Fandom for LLS recently. Hope you enjoy it  
Thank you all for all the lovely things you've had to say about The Plan over this past year.

…

The Plan – Outtake

Day of Employment: 13

6:35pm

Dinner: Being eaten on sofa

Roommate: Inquisitor, it seems

"So," I say, sounding too deliberately casual to my own ears, "there's this guy I keep seeing at work-"

"A guy? What guy? You never mentioned a guy." Alice stops mid-carrot bite. "You're seeing a guy at work?"

"I _see _him at work. Not 'seeing' him." My fork runs through the rice. I like Alice's idea better.

I think.

"Aren't there a lot of guys on your floor?" Alice talks around a mouthful of food. Somehow, she's still cute. I would look like a cow with a cud.

"Not like…not like him. They are guys. He's a, well…" I hadn't really thought about this before. Guys wear ball caps. Sometimes backwards. This is cannot picture. Guys swill beer and slap buds on the back and often can be observed being pleasant and have even been known to smile. I've never seen this man smile. "He's a man."

"_Man._" Alice hums the word.

Silence. I don't know why I brought this up. Why I couldn't contain it.

"I don't work with him." We interrupt this message to Thank God. "He's got a corner office and a commanding presence and wears suits so very, very well."

Alice quirks an eyebrow.

Another bite. Alice squirms in her seat. "Go on. What makes this one so special?"

I shrug. "He's not special. He's an asshole."

"Oh, yeah. Assholes aren't special, Bella. Assholes are your specialty."

I chuck a snow pea at her. But it's true.

She lobs it back to me.

"Probably not my Prince Charming then, you think?" I smile.

"You know, Bella, you kiss enough frogs you end up with HPV."

"Pretty sure that's just toads and warts."

…

Day of Employment 14

10:30am

Dress: Same red as my first day. Thus begins the repeat cycle.

Desk: Clutter-free

Cactus: Withering away

"Already?" I am in shock. I didn't even get to place a bet on this last one.

"You snooze, you lose," Eric says, fanning himself with the small handful of bills and looking disturbing akin to a cotillion darling.

Across the floor, a sniffly blonde packs up her belongings from the desk outside Edward Cullen's closed office door. Not her desk. The desk. No one has it long enough to lay claim.

"I wasn't 'snoozing.' I was discussing the P&L with Rosalie."

Eric remains unruffled. "Snooze, schmooze. Same diff. All I know is I'm gonna be buying some new shoes and you're still gonna be wearing those BOGOs." He looks askance at my feet.

Well, perhaps he's always a tad ruffly.

But, I note my shoes definitely are of the sensible heel variety.

I smooth my skirt and tuck my feet under my desk.

...

1:03pm

"Whoa." Eric nudges Angela. "Somebody skipped lunch." He points toward me.

She looks down. "Ooo, nice shoes. You went shopping? Without me?" She feigns hurt.

Spinning a quarter turn in my chair, I allow myself a moment to admire my shiny, distinctly non-sensible shoes, then I head to give Rosalie the reports before her meeting.

Unfortunately, she is not in her office.

She's also not to be found in the supply room, copy room, or bathroom. By the time my search reaches our deserted break room, I regret not breaking in the new shoes before wearing them at work.

I take a moment to lean over a table and take the weight off my feet. Just a second. Please. Ugh. A moment of relief, that's all I'm asking.

I'm sure I look a sight. My face on the cool table and my ass up in the air, feet swinging in the wind.

_Thunk._

One heel slips to the floor.

My toes fumble around until I feel the leather, twist into it, and oh-so-carefully lift it behind me like a crane until I can reach back and put it on again.

I stretch and grunt and twist and probably channel all the grace of Cloris Leachman performing Swan Lake.

Well, that was certainly relaxing.

Grabbing the reports, I leave just in time to see Edward Cullen round the corner, gorgeous jaw clenched.

All the air squeezes from my lungs.

He doesn't spare me a glance.

Whew. A few moments earlier and that would've been really embarrassing.

...

4:45pm

Email: Empty

Spreadsheets: Done

Mind: Preoccupied. To say the least.

Edward Cullen.

His door stares back at me.

I watched him go there about five minutes ago.

Or twenty.

Navy suit, sky blue tie.

Outline of his frame burned into my retinas.

"…Bella? You okay?" Angela peers over her cubicle wall.

"Hmm? Oh…oh, yes. Yes, I'm fine." Shake the cobwebs from my head. I need to do the same for other parts of me. "Long day."

"They all are," Angela says, and shuts down. "I'm heading out after I run over to HR with the picture that PA left today."

"She was in a hurry to get outta here, huh?"

"More likely, to get away from Cullen," she laughs. On the betting pool chart, she makes a winning mark for the day under Eric's name. "Be ready tomorrow, Bella. Eric is taking us to the cleaners."

She's right. Eric is winning all the time. He must have a system.

Or – I think back to his comment about my shoes, my whereabouts, everyone's happenings – he's just observant as Hell.

Hell, I can be observant.

I look at the closed, hardwood door.

There are worse things to look at.

Oh, I'll be ready tomorrow.

Thinking about Cullen, I'm ready now.

Angela leaves.

The office sounds fade away.

No clicks. No buzzes. No chatter.

Nothing but me and that unforgiving door.

Clearly, I've been reading far, far too many trashy romances – because I cannot help myself. I imagine it opening.

Cullen would emerge. Starched white shirt. Crisp.

Jacket over his arm. Hair…doing whatever the fuck it is that it does.

I'd be at my desk.

Fans blowing my hair back. No. No, that's a bit much. Scratch the fan.

I'd be at my desk. Pretending to work.

Pretending not to hear him approach.

"Miss…Swan, isn't it?" His voice spills over my shoulder, warm like coffee along my neck.

I shiver at the thought alone.

I spin, look up at him through my lashes. Suppress the urge to say I'll be whoever he wants me to be.

"Yes. Mr. Cullen, is it?" As if I don't know.

He looks down at me. Tongue darts. Lips glisten.

"I'm told you handle…" Steps so close I can feel the heat of him. "…spread…" Hand runs along my chair. "…sheets."

"Yes, I do." I cross my arms, push my breast together. Subtle.

Or maybe not. "Anything you want me to handle, you can put in my box."

"I need to whip it out by five."

"Well, that'll be hard." My eyes dart to his zipper. "I'll need it on my desk now."

I want to assume an entry-level position.

He looks around the empty office and then to me. Like a predatory cat, he makes a final move forward, leans around my body, breathes into my hair, and his white linen arm sweeps the papers from my desk.

His hand goes under my hair, fingers dig into my neck, bends me, bows my back. I crush into him, part my lips and breathe in the scent of him. He leans in, searches my face, eyes to lips to neck, then he's on me. Covers my mouth with his. Again. I'm open and swallowed up.

Underneath his tongue is smooth and sweet.

My ankle wraps around his leg and he lifts me against him before pushing me down against the desk that I shall henceforth never be able to look at again without thoughts of Edward Cullen.

Hands everywhere. I feel him at my ribs.

I fumble with his buttons, he tears mine free.

I touch his face. He wraps my legs around his waist, grinds into me. Deep. Hard.

Even through clothes it's better than any of my real sex.

One hand at my throat, thumb under my jaw, lips parted and panting down on me, his fingers tear through my hosiery, slipping-

"Bella?"

Wha-?

"It's after five." Rosalie looks at me questioningly. "Are you having trouble? I haven't overloaded you, have I?"

"I'm fine." Load-free even. Regrettably so.

We both turn to the sound of Cullen's door opening. He looks to Rosalie briefly then goes on his way.

I feel my cheeks burn.

It's no big deal.

One office daydream.

Not like I'm going to let myself get obsessed with him.

I clock out.


	4. Outtake Day 2 point 2

Author's Note:

Below is an outtake for The Plan.  
I realize that the original story is not available here any longer, but I do hope that an occasional outtake is still welcome. I left this story file open so that I could share my thought directly as to why I pulled the story a few years ago, rather than let there be speculation elsewhere. Also, I hoped to share little outtakes from time to time.

This outtake is NOT a part of the published story.  
It was originally suggested by the very patient Twific Crackmum and Muriel Gaylee. I dedicate it to them and to my dear friend, Kyndall (celesticbliss) who I failed to include in the story dedication. Kyndall is a talented writer and amazing friend. She provided a great deal of the backstory elements for our favorite corner office asshole.

So, without further ado, an outtake from our hero's POV:

The Bane of My Existence  
(The Plan – an outtake in alternate POV)

Test of Endurance – Day 2.2

She is sitting right beside me.

This woman. This…woe of man.

This man, anyway.

Not back in the office pool. Not safely tucked away among the steno or admin or whatever is the _du jour_ PC term for PAs. Not on the other side of my door. Not scurrying about the break room, casting side glances and almost-but-not-quite looking away before I spy her spying on me.

And I do spy her spying.

A lot.

She is right beside me on this airplane seat for the next few hours and just as irritatingly, distractingly, unpredictably, infuriatingly…pretty.

Which truly should not be at issue as I cannot recall being bother by merely "pretty" girls. What has she accomplished? My attractions and pursuits need to be firmly centered, as ever, within the realm of accomplished females. Educated. Established. Exquisite.

Not simple…simply pretty.

What am I to do with someone like this tiny creature who works a barely above entry-level job? Who must have given up on the college in which she recently enrolled since she has nothing preventing her from taking this personal assistant position at a moment's notice? Who appears to have wielded a flat iron for the first time this week?

Let it be noted: I deduct a modicum of self respect for noting her hair and the care and maintenance thereof.

I imagine the feel of it wrapped around my fingers…

Damn it. Damn it all.

_Focus. The forecast for this industry sector is promising and incorporating manufacturing in-house…_

My hands still sting. The warmth of her waist as I caught her, caught myself from wrapping around her. Smooth skin. Some unknown scent that still teases me.

_A full scale production line of enhanced SPF offerings coupled with bio-degradable packaging…_

Her seat shifts as she rifles through her carry-on bag that is roughly the size of a Buick. My accursed eyes drift to the sliver of skin that I touched a short while ago.

She shifts again, fidgets with the pair of shoes she's wearing.

_Profit margins on liquids between fifteen to twent-_

Her finger slips absently between heel and arch.

_Recyclable, er, reclaimed… reclaimed pack-_

Smoothes hosiery from knee to calf.

_Market reports…market reports…reports…want her knees on my shoulders…her shoes banging against my face like earrings…_

I ponder the potential TSA reaction to a primal roar at 30,000 feet and vow to burn her shoe collection.

"Very well," she says and slips her notes into the aforementioned Buick.

A shift in the cabin pressure and my ears clog. Her voice sounds like she's standing in a glass of water.

"Very well, Sir."

This is acutely painful. Forget earrings. Ear amputation seems in order. I press my fingers strategically and sincerely wish I'd thought to bring a stick of –

"Gum?"

She smiles (not convincingly) at me with a piece of wintergreen gum in her outstretched palm.

I…

I am at a loss.

A capable assistant.

Long have I considered that an oxymoron.

Now, maybe I can focus on negotiation strategies.

_Foreign market testing can be delayed until 2nd__quarter. Print adverts in pre-launch across 17-35 female market readers. Online as early as-_

The flavor has not even begun to fade when she nudges my arm with a book. "Have you had a chance to read this?"

Before me, she offers a copy of the new book by my favorite author. The book that I pre-ordered on the day it was announced. The book that was delivered yesterday. The book that I intentionally, and with a level of well-practiced restraint in which I can admit I take great pride, forced myself to leave on my nightstand at home so that I would not be distracted.

Custom-made, folks. She was designed in the mold to sabotage my productivity.

A/N:

So, that's that.  
I hope to post a few others from time to time.


End file.
